Once Again
by Velveteen Nightmare
Summary: Some Amis anger a gypsy woman who doles out revenge by turning them into children. COMPLETE
1. Default Chapter

Author's Note: I do not own Les Miserables.  I would not own it in a box, I would not own it with a fox, I do not own it here or there, I do not own it anywhere.  Anyone who can predict what is going to happen based upon Orka Vygotsky's name is brilliant.  :-)      

Orka Vygotsky tied her shawl securely around her thin shoulders.  Clutching her basket tightly in her gnarled leather like hands she strode out of her store and into the street.

            "Look out!" a male voice cried.  

Orka barely stifled the curse that rose to her lips.  Her basket was knocked out of her grasp and its contents spread into the street.  She looked up to see three young men running around the corner and out of sight.  Mumbling she bent over to pick up her belongings.  "Acting like children." She muttered.  

            Another pair of hands soon joined her own.  "Sorry about them." A gentle voice said.  

            She looked up again and saw a young man with a kind face and a pair of glasses that were slightly askew.  His hair was tousled by the wind and he was evidently out of breath.  

            "We were racing." He said apologetically as he handed her a needle and spool of thread he had just retrieved from a mud puddle.  

            Musingly Orka took the items from him and placed them in her basket.  She hadn't entirely gotten over her initial wrath and was at this particular moment plotting.  An idea suddenly formed in her mind.  With it a smile formed on her lips.  She met the young man's gaze.  

            "No apology needed.  Such a kind young man, stopping to help an old woman such as myself.  I must thank you."  Orka said, patting the boy on the arm.

            "Oh, no.  No need to thank me.  Anyone would have done—"

            "But no one else did.  Your friends ran off," she made a broad encompassing gesture indicating the street around them, "and no one else even gave me a glance."  Standing up she tugged on his arm.  "You will come into my shop and I will give you a bottle of very good wine.  You must take it."  She added seeing her helper was about to protest.  "It would be a grave insult to me if you turned my offer down."

            The young man smiled and pushed his glasses back up to their proper resting place on his nose.  "I wouldn't want to insult you." He said, allowing Orka to lead him into her shop.  

            "You wait right here, young man."  Orka ordered as she disappeared into the back of the store.  In the backroom of the store she grabbed a small dusty bottle.  She then took a bottle of wine, opened it and poured herself a glass.  She then added the contents of the dusty bottle to the bottle of wine.  Taking the wine bottle and her own glass of wine into the front of the store she smiled shyly. 

            "It is a tradition in my culture to pour a glass of wine from the bottle you give as a present.  That way, you drink from the same bottle even though you do not drink together."  She handed him the wine bottle and took a sip from her glass.  

            "I thank you.  Good health to you, Madame." The young man said taking the bottle.       

            "Please, share this gift with your friends.  Maybe it will teach them…teach them to help people when they are in need."  

            "I will do so.  Good day, Madame."  The young man bowed politely and exited from her shop.  

            Orka Vygotsky smiled.  "Yes, indeed.  Maybe it will teach them."  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            "And she gave you a bottle of wine?" Bahorel groaned.  

            "Combeferre has all of the luck." Joly groaned.

            "You three left an old woman in the middle of the street?" Prouvaire asked, obviously shocked to the core of his very being.  

            "And she told me to share it with my friends."  Combeferre said, pouring the wine into glasses.  "Personally, I think Enjolras, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac and myself should have priority."

            Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet protested loudly.

            "But," Combeferre said handing them each a glass. "Enjolras and Courfeyrac are not here."  He smiled slightly.  "And she said she hoped it would teach you to help people in need."  

            "Probably poisoned it." Bahorel joked, taking a swig from his glass.

            "It is excellent wine."  Joly remarked.  

            "Quite good." Prouvaire added.   

            The five drank their wine in silence for a while.  Bahorel put down his empty glass and nudged it gently aside with the tips of his fingers.  "Strong stuff." He muttered, resting his head in his arms.  

            "Very." Bossuet muttered, doing likewise.  

            Joly looked at Combeferre.  "We'd know if it were poisoned, right?"  

            Combeferre felt as if he were hearing his friend as though from a great distance.  He peered over at Jean Prouvaire, only to see him face down in a notebook, apparently as unconscious as the others.  He was about to reply to Joly when he succumbed to the dizziness and passed out cold.  


	2. ABC to ABCs

_Author's Note:_  I should add here that the basic premise of this fan-fic is based on a role-play that happened _years _ago in Le Café.  Cranky Orka is my own creation however.          

Enjolras wearily climbed the stairs to the backroom of the café Musain.  It had been a particularly horrible day.  He had failed his last examination by only one question.  A gypsy lady had shouted something at him on his way over to the café, and he had stepped in a large pile of horse dung while crossing the street.  He was in an altogether rather foul mood.  

            Opening the door, Enjolras froze.  Sleeping very peacefully were five…boys.  He rubbed his eyes and stared in open-mouthed awe.  

            Unaware they were being watched the five young boys' peaceful breathing filled the room.  Enjolras noted that they looked like they had raided their older brother's wardrobes…their outfits were at least five sizes too large.  He strode over to the one wearing glasses and gruffly shook the child's shoulder.  

            "Wake up." He ordered shortly.

            The boy opened his eyes and looked up at Enjolras blearily.  "Hullo, Enjolras." The boy mumbled in between two yawns.  "Whatzthematter?" He added looking at the expression of growing fury on Enjolras' face.

            "Gamin, take your friends and go play elsewhere.  My friends and I have important business to attend to here."  Enjolras managed to say evenly.

            "Gamin?" The boy's face broke out into a grin.  "What are you talk-" The boy suddenly caught a glimpse of his hands.  He stared bewildered.  Then his gaze shifted from his hands to his friends, who were starting to stir at the sound of Enjolras' voice.

            "Who's in trouble this time?" A chubby cheeked boy asked yawning.  

            "Gamins—be gone!" Enjolras ordered pointing menacingly to the door.  

            A thin boy with enormous gray eyes looked hesitantly at the others.  "Maybe…maybe we should go."  He suggested timidly.

            The first boy nodded jerkily at his friend.  "I think so." He said in an uneven tone of voice.  The other boys quickly got their feet looking sadly at Enjolras.  They looked as if they wanted to say something, or maybe ask about something.  He could tell that they were certainly bewildered about something.  

            Enjolras felt a momentary pang of guilt.  "I'm sorry I yelled at you."  He said in a more reasonable tone.  Reaching into his coat he pulled out five francs.  "Go buy yourselves something to eat." He said, handing it to the boy with chubby cheeks.

            "Take your money and—" The boy began.  However, the boy with glasses cut him short, clamping his hand over his mouth.  The coin fell to the floor and rolled under one of the tables.  

            "Let us go." He pleaded, tugging the angry boy towards the door with one hand, and trying to keep his britches up with his other.  

            The boys hurried out of the café and into the street.  

            Enjolras shook his head.  "Brats." He muttered as he took out his watch.  A frown furrowed his brow.  His friends should have been there by now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            "What did that—" Bahorel spat out a whole host of colorful adjectives, "gypsy woman give us?"  

            "Evidently something that…turned back the wheel of time, reversed the hourglass of age…" Prouvaire trailed off, self-consciously trying to pull his breeches up.

            "What are we going to do tonight?  There is no way the land lady is going to let us in looking like this!" Joly cried frantically, waving his arms about in an agitated fashion.  The movement caused his too-large sleeves to flap in the breeze.  

            "You've been buying doeskin breeches instead of paying your rent." Combeferre pointed out.  "Your land lady wasn't going to let you in regardless."  

            "Still…but think of the childhood diseases we are now susceptible to again!  It was hard enough making it past ten the first time!  What if we catch cholera?  Or scarlet fever?  What if we come down with smallpox?  What if I—er—we catch diphtheria?"

            "Sounds like you've already caught diarrhea of the mouth." Bahorel muttered.     

            Bossuet grinned as he caught site of himself in the window glass.  "At least we're cute kids, eh?"  He self-consciously ran a hand through his hair.  "And I have hair again! Beautiful, wavy, tresses! Locks! Curls! Beautiful, lovely, shiny, hair! I--"  

            "This is all your fault!" Bahorel cried, shoving him against the wall.  "Your bad luck has doomed us all!" 

            "Easy there, Bahorel.  This isn't Bousset's fault."  Combeferre said, separating the two.  "There is a—OUCH!" A broom hit him squarely between the shoulders.

            "Urchins!" The owner of the café Musain cried, hitting Bahorel with a broom.  "You are scaring off my customers!"  He delivered a whack to Joly, who yelped in pain.  He then hit Bossuet with the broom across the legs, causing him to fall on the sidewalk.  "Get away from my establishment!"

            The man continued raining blows down upon them, until they finally managed to break away and run down the street as fast as their legs would carry them.  

            Panting the group huddled together in an alley.  "Remind me to stiff him next time we eat there." Bahorel said clutching his side.  

            "We must, and I do mean, _must_, find some new clothing." Joly said.  "I nearly tripped and fell to my death."

            "What are we going to do, Combeferre?" Jehan asked leaning against the brickwork.  

            Combeferre cleared his throat and straitened his clothing as best as he could.  "Quite simple.  We must find this old woman again, and ask for the antidote."  

            "But we can't wander about Paris dressed like this!" Jehan pointed out with a little tug at his shirtfront.

            "Your bad fashion didn't bother you before, Prouvaire, why the sudden change?" Bahorel asked.  

            "Oh, funny Bahorel.  Real funny." Jehan remarked dryly.  "At least no one's ever mistaken me for a lobster."  

            The group looked at him bewildered.

            He shifted uneasily.  "Well you know…him and his red waistcoats…lobsters….sea creatures…that turn red when you cook…them…oh forget it.  I'm no good at insults."  He stared at his feet dejectedly.  

            "Pinch, pinch" Bahorel grinned as he made "claws" with his hands.  Joly and Bossuet doubled over with laughter.    

            Combeferre rolled his eyes.  "Enough.  Bahorel, leave Jehan alone.  Remember, he's the one who translates your Latin for you.  For all you know next time he could put things into the translations that will get you expelled, and even though your parents are fond of you, I'm fairly certain that they'd object to _that_."  

            Bahorel shut up.  

            Combeferre began pacing the alley.  "What we need is a place to stay.  We need someone who will believe us.  Someone who will help us…someone female.  Someone…"  Combeferre grinned.  "Someone like…"

_More to come soon.  A red waistcoat to anyone who guesses who the mysterious female is. LoL!_


	3. More of a Problem

Musichetta gasped and clutched her chest.  "Oh…my…gawd…you are sooooo cute!"  She bent down and hugged all five boys at the same time.  "Aren't you just the most precious things!"  Musichetta drug them into her apartment smiling broadly whilst her brown eyes sparkled with delight.  

            "Please Musichetta, listen to me this is serious." Joly pleaded.

            "Oh, you are just too cute for words!" She squealed.  "I can't wait until Marquette comes home.  Ohhhh, look at those little chipmunk cheeks!"  She grabbed Bahorel's face and pinched his cheek.  

            "Musichetta, please!" Joly cried.

            "Ohhhh, this is wonderful!  I can be a maman!"  

            Combeferre sighed.  "Please, Musichetta, we're grown men, and---"

            "And you're just the cutest little things Auntie Musichetta has ever seen!"  She squealed with delight.  

            "Will you help us?" Joly finally yelled shaking Musichetta's arms.  His blonde hair fell into his flushed face giving him an over all exasperated appearance.  

            Musichetta frowned.  "I guess so Jolllly."  She dug into her ragbag and began sorting clothing that the boys could possibly wear.  "You're such a kill-joy."  

            "Oh, Combeferre." Bossuet called.   

            "What is it?"  

            "Something just occurred to me.  I think…I think…this is only half of the metamorphosis."  

            Combeferre frowned deeply.  Or at least as deeply as his young face would let him.  "What do you mean?"

            "Well, I mean, I think we're going to end up with the minds of children as well."  Bossuet nervously fingered a lock of hair.  

            "What makes you think that?"  Combeferre furrowed his brow.  

            "Because…because…"  Bossuet muttered.  "Bahorel's acting…odd.."

            "More than usual, I assume?"  

            "He let Musichetta pinch his cheek." Bossuet pointed out.  "Musichetta, whom he dubbed 'The Giggling Wonder'."  

            Combeferre sighed.  "Hardly reason for alarm.  But I will look into it."  He walked over to Bahorel and put his arm around his shoulder.  "Bahorel, what's wrong you're silent for a change."

            Bahorel looked at Combeferre with the utmost disgust and shook off his friend's arm.  "I'm _bored.  _Can't we go do something else?"  

            Combeferre swallowed with difficulty.  A knot of panic rose in his chest.  "In a moment."

            "In a moment." Bahorel mimicked.  "What are ya, some sort of professor with those glasses?"  He gave Combeferre a sharp poke and went over to investigate what Musichetta was doing. 

            Combeferre wracked his brain.  What was going on?  Why weren't the others…but wait…he had served Bahorel first.  "First Bahorel was served, then Prouvaire…cripes…_Jehan_!"

            He spun on his heel and faced the poet.   Jehan was scuffing the toe of his boot on the slightly frayed rug.  "Jehan?"

            "What's wrong Combeferre?" Prouvaire asked as he looked up from his boots.  "You look awful!"

            "Oh nothing much…ah…no…actually…" Combeferre explained the situation in an under-tone.  

            "Oh lovely." Jehan muttered.  

            "And apparently…you're next."

            "Great.  Childhood and adolescence were so wonderful the first time."  

            "Look at it this way, you won't remember the first time." Combeferre said in a futile attempt to be helpful.

            Jean Prouvaire stared at his friend.  "Sometimes I think we need to work on your people skills, René."  

            "I'm boooored." Bahorel complained loudly.  

            "Bahorel,"

            "Don't call me that.  My name's Michel." 

            Combeferre gritted his teeth.  "Okay, Michel.  Go bother Joly, Michel.  Who's Joly? He's the blonde kid taking his pulse.  Still with us Jehan?" He asked his friend.

            "At the moment.  What do you want?" Jean Prouvaire was sitting on the floor resting his chin on his knees.  

            "Any idea how old we actually are?"  Combeferre seated himself on the floor beside him.  

            "Seven."  Jehan answered without a moment's pause.  

            "Seven?"

            "Seven.  I can tell because seven was the age I was when I lost my front teeth."  He grinned shyly showing off the gap in his smile.  

            Musichetta caught sight of this and squealed again.  "Oh, you just too cute for words, yes you are!"  She hugged him tightly and tousled his hair in a motherly manner.  

            Combeferre sighed and tried to formulate some sort of plan of action.  Sometimes being second in command wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Enjolras was scowling at Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Grantaire.   Feuilly and Courfeyrac were dining and Grantaire was drinking the dregs out of a bottle that he found on the table.

 "Where are they?" Enjolras asked for the hundredth time.  

            "We don't know.  Are you going to finish that roll, Enjolras?" Courfeyrac asked eyeing Enjolras' half-finished meal.  

            "They should have been here hours ago!  This isn't like them.  Maybe those gamins scared them off."  

            "Oh yes, homeless children are terrifying." Feuilly remarked shortly.  Enjolras had told them about the situation with the boys.  Feuilly was somewhat peeved that Enjolras had chased them off, and felt strongly empathetic for the boys whoever they were.  

            Enjolras made a noise of disgust.  He had no tolerance for children or for childhood.  The two lacked any form of the seriousness that he so prized.  "They were rude urchins.  Probably more bourgeois than gamin, if one were to look at their clothing.  Mind you, it was at least seven sizes too large for them."  He frowned.  "One of them dropped their jacket."

            Courfeyrac picked it up with one hand and with his other he swiped Enjolras' roll and stuffed it into his mouth.  "Hey, this is Joly's coat."  He grinned with his mouth full.  "See, it has his mirror in the pocket and a little medical dictionary so he can look up his latest malady."  He held up the items with a smile.  

            Enjolras froze.  "But…that is where one of those…gamins…" The blood drained from his already pale face.  The boy who had practically told him where to stick his money…the boy with glasses and had called him by name…the thin peacemaker…. 

            "It couldn't be…but…it had to be…they…they were already here."    

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Author's Note: More to come soon.  _


	4. Jehan

Combeferre held his head in his hands. To put it mildly, the day was not going well. He had just discovered a new problem…his glasses were too large for his small face. Without them the world was a colorful blur, so taking them off was not an option. With them, he had to push them up every few minutes much to his irritation. In an attempt to help, Musichetta had tied a worn piece of yellow satin around the earpieces. With the addition of the ribbon he felt very foolish. 

To make a bad situation worse, Marquette, Musichetta's sister had come home and she was no less vocal about her admiration for the group. "Can we keep them, 'hetta?" She asked hugging Bahorel, who scowled mildly at her. 

Musichetta was actually very good with children. At least she made Bahorel…Michel stop scowling when she brought out a small box with lead soldiers and a tiny cannon. "Here, Michel, you can play with these if you like." 

Michel Bahorel's eyes lit up and he took the box quite cheerfully. He lined up the soldiers into two rows. "Die English –" He let loose some expletives that most seven year olds would not have used. 

Musichetta's eyes widened. "Language!" She snapped swatting him on the head. 

"Sorry Mademoiselle." 

Combeferre noted that it had been exactly an hour and half when Jehan scooted over and started playing with Bahorel. Mentally he calculated that he had about four and a half hours before he succumbed to the same fate. Amused he watched the two play with the soldiers. 

"We need cannon balls." Bahorel announced. 

"We could use rocks." Jehan countered.

"Or we could melt down a soldier and use him for cannon balls."

"No, you can't do that! Then this army would be smaller." 

"It could be the losing army."

"But that wouldn't be fair!"

"We could melt down two soldiers."

"We don't need _that _many cannon balls."

"We could use rocks."

"I already said that."

"Oh."

Despite the situation, Combeferre fought the urge to laugh. 

Bahorel screwed up his face. "What armies should we have?"

"Roman and Gaul?"

"Huh?"

"Roman…from Rome…Gaul…that would be us."

"Oh. I'm Gaul then."

"Fine, but that means you loose."

"Nuh-uh, then you can be Gaul."

"Nope. _The Die is Cast_."

Combeferre did laugh, but he clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. It figured that a seven-year-old Jean Prouvaire would already know about the Gallic Wars. 

Bahorel scowled again. "Musichetta! He won't let me be Rome."

"He said he wanted to be Gaul." Jehan protested with a slight anxiety creeping into his voice. 

Musichetta looked delighted. "For the next half hour you be Gaul, Michel. Then you can be Rome. Oh, I love this!" She squealed and went back to sorting clothing. 

Combeferre shook his head and sighed deeply. He hadn't bothered explaining the situation to Joly and Bossuet. He didn't see the point in having them worry about the inevitable. Combeferre also figured that they would probably pick up on Bahorel and Prouvaire's strange behavior and put two and two together. 

One thing did bother him. If they all ended up losing their adult minds then there was a significant chance that they wouldn't find the woman that had done this to them. As much as he hated to admit it, Combeferre decided that they were in need of help from Enjolras and the others. They would have to send Musichetta as an envoy. 

But there was no earthly way Enjolras would just accept Musichetta's word for everything. Unlike the other Amis he had never met her before. She would have to have something along the lines of proof…a letter for example. 

Sighing again, Combeferre walked over to the two young women. "Musichetta, Marquette, would either of you two happen to have some paper and ink? I need to write a note for Enjolras explaining this situation to him. It will be up to him and the others to find whoever did this to us." 

Marquette nodded. "I have some. Charles gave me some lovely stationary as a present. He also gave me a pen and ink…I don't have the heart to tell him I can't read or write." She chattered cheerfully as she got the items for Combeferre. 

Combeferre smiled at her, looking something like a baby owl with his glasses perched preciously on his nose. "Thank you, Marquette." 

He took the items, sat down on the floor, and bean to write. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Enjolras scowled at his two friends with the paramount of irritation. "Stop that infernal laughing!" He cried.

Feuilly clutched a stitch in his side. "I never knew you had such a good sense of humor, Enjolras!"

Courfeyrac wiped away a tear. "Yeah. They 'magically' got turned into children somehow. That is the funniest thing I've heard in ages!" 

The two kept laughing and Enjolras kept scowling. This went on for at least another full minute when suddenly Feuilly stopped laughing. 

Courfeyrac stopped long enough to ask what was the matter. 

Feuilly stared openmouthed and pointed behind Courfeyrac at Grantaire's table. 

Enjolras and Courfeyrac both turned to look. Their jaws dropped in comical unison. 

Sitting at Grantaire's table was indeed Grantaire…but a younger version of him. Still clutching the bottle he didn't look a day over fifteen. The scraggly beard, the awful dark bags under his eyes, the unkempt hair, were all gone. In their place were smooth skin, bright intelligent eyes, and tousled hair. While he was still homely, there was certain innocence about his features that up until this moment had not been there. 

Grantaire looked at them. "What's the matter with you fellows?" The words came out uninhibited by inebriation. 

Courfeyrac wordlessly handed him Joly's mirror. 

Grantaire took it cheerfully. Astonishment gradually came over his features as he looked at his reflection. He set the bottle down on the table and grabbed the mirror with both hands peering intensely at his reflection. 

The other three held their breath waiting for some sort of definite reaction from him. 

Grantaire looked up at them after a long pause. He was smiling. "I'm a rather good looking fellow, non?" 

_Author's note: more to come, I promise. _


	5. Joly

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Musichetta had managed to outfit the boys in clothing that fit somewhat more securely.  While not stylish by any stretch of the imagination it was nice not having yards of fabric flap about whenever they moved.  

Combeferre chewed on his pen thoughtfully.  The message sounded like a bad joke.  Nevertheless, he signed it and beneath his signature added the usual three letters that all of the missives of Les Amis ended with: ABC.

            He sealed it and pressed the wax smooth and addressed it hurriedly:

                        _To:_

_             Hector Enjolras_

 6 Rue de Leroux 

            Combeferre shrugged and handed the missive to Musichetta.  "This is for Enjolras.  It explains everything just incase we don't find him…in time."

            Musichetta's brown eyes sparkled once more.  "So I finally get to meet the famed and fabled Enjolras." She said as she put the letter in her basket.  "Charles-Leon tells me that Enjolras _hates_ women.  Is that true?" She asked.

            For a split second Combefrerre's mind fumbled around, wondering who the heck Charles-Leon was…then he smiled in a bemused sort of manner at his absentmindedness…of course Musichetta was referring to Joly.  This mystery solved, Combeferre set to answer her question.  

            "I don't think he actively _hates_ women, no.  Just doesn't see why the rest of us put up so much of a fuss, I guess."

            Musichetta's eyes misted over briefly.  "He's never been in love."  

            Marquette was watching Jehan and Michel play on the floor.  She raised an arched eyebrow as Joly joined them.  "Hey, Musichetta!  Charles-Leon's gone kiddo on us too."  

            Michel eyed the newcomer distrustfully.  "Who are you?" He asked darkly.

            "I'm Charles-Leon." 

            "I'm Jean." Jehan replied.  "Do you wanna play with us?"

            "He can't play with us." Michel said in the same dark moody tones.  "There aren't 'nuff soldier for us all."

            Jehan smiled.  "You can have half of mine, Charles-Leon."  

            "NO."  Michel slammed his hand against the floor.  "I don't want him playing with us, Jean!"

            "I can play here if I want to!" Charles-Leon snapped.  

            Michel stood up and so did Charles-Leon.  Michel snarled.  "Don't make me hit you!"

            Jehan scrambled to his feet.  "Its just a stupid game, Michel."  

            Michel shoved Charles-Leon.  The blonde boy staggered backwards just barely managing to catch himself from falling.  

            "Will you quit?" Jehan asked.  

            Michel tried to clamp his hand over Jehan's mouth.  "Shut up, Je—OW!" He cried out in pain as Jehan sunk his teeth into Michel Bahorel's hand.  

            Combeferre suddenly looked on in alarm.  So did Bossuet. They exchanged looks, both clearly asking the other _What should we do?_

            Their answer came in the form of a full-fledged three-way fight.  All three boys were doing their best to kick, bite, hit, scratch, and otherwise bodily maim the others. 

            Musichetta's eyes flashed dangerously.  "Boys, that's enough."  She cried.

            There was no response from the group.  Her eyes narrowed and she walked up to the squirming mass of youth and grabbed the first ear lobe she could reach.

            "OUCH!" Michel cried.   

            Musichetta ignored his pleas and grabbed Charles-Leon Joly by the earlobe as well.  Pinching them tightly she asked, "Now, boys what do you say?"

            "You're dead meat, Charles!" Michel snarled.  His snarl turned into a yelp as Musichetta pinched harder.  "S-s-s-so—sorry!" He stammered.  

            "I'm sorry too!" Charles-Leon wailed.  

            Jehan was still seated on the floor.  "You're not gonna pinch my earlobe are you?" He asked his voice filled with anxiety. "Because, I'm sorry too." His eyes were bright with tears and his voice shook slightly.  He was the very picture of an innocent party fearing prosecution through association.

            Marquette's lip quivered.  "Oh heavens, 'hetta, they are just to die for aren't they?"  

            Musichetta sighed as she gave her sister a half-hearted glare. "You are no help whatsoever."  But she let go of Michel's ear.  "When I was fifteen, I wasn't nearly as much of an interference." 

            Marquette put her arms protectively around Joly and Jehan.  Both of which seemed relieved at the intervention and sighed audibly.  

            Combeferre decided that perhaps things might turn out all right after all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Enjolras sighed heavily as he was nearly knocked off his feet for the fourth time in a block.

            "Ooops! Sorry Enjolras!" Grantaire cried as he bounded happily in between the three men like an excited puppy.  

            "I hope he's housebroken." Courfeyrac commented as Grantaire catcalled to yet another passing grisette.  

            "_She's_ a pretty one!" Grantaire commented and Feuilly had to grab him by the scruff of his neck in order to keep him at bay.  

            "Hey, sweetie, how 'bout you get yourself a real man?" Grantaire called.  

            The young woman raised an eyebrow.  "Let me know when you dry up behind the ears, kid."  Then she hurried on her way, leaving a slightly doleful Grantaire in her wake.  

            Courfeyrac howled with laughter.  "Callous!"  

            "Well…I can do better than her anyway.  Who needs ya!" Grantaire called to the girl's retreating figure.  

            "Do try and act human." Enjolras growled.  

            "He is."  Courfeyrac and Feuilly replied in unison.  

            "I am."  Grantaire answered, attempting to wriggle out of Feuilly's gentle yet firm grasp.  

            "Then do so more subtly.  You don't see Feuilly and Courfey—well you don't see Feuilly acting like that."  Enjolras amended as Courfeyrac gave a passing woman a wink with a mischievous smile.   

            "You're just jealous."  

            "Jealous?" Enjolras stopped and stared at Grantaire.  "I? Jealous!"  He seemed offended by the mere notion that he could have such feelings.  He gave the youth an icy glare.  Enjolras had come to realize that this glare had a wonderful effect on Grantaire.  Normally the inebriate would fall into abashed silence with his head bowed slightly.  

            Today however, Grantaire, who had been acting most peculiar since they passed the Rue Scribe stuck his chin out and said haughtily, "That's right. Jealous!  I'm younger, better looking, and the grisettes love me.  Puh.  You probably couldn't get a woman to pay attention to you if you got down on your knees in front of one."  

            Feuilly was stunned for a moment and his grip went lax.  "Grantaire?" 

            Grantaire spun around. "Well? Isn't he the biggest jerk you've ever met?"

            "Yeah, he kinda is—er" Courfeyrac broke off into a peculiar fit of coughing when Enjolras glared at him.  

            "I could have the attentions of the fairer sex if I so chose to—"

            "The words of a man who has been turned down flat by everything in a skirt!" Grantaire howled.

            Enjolras' ears turned pink  "I hardly think---that is---what exactly are you---"

            "I bet she was ugly to boot!"  Grantaire cried gripping onto a bewildered, yet slightly amused Courfeyrac.  

            "She _was not_ ugly---I mean---oh shut UP Courfeyrac---Feuilly?  I hardly see what this has to do with the subject at hand---SHUT UP Courfeyrac!"  

            "She! Singular! Turned down by one girl and the whole gender is forever branded!  So that's your problem, mon ami! Why didn't you say so?" Courfeyrac asked, as Grantaire clung to his arm howling with laughter.  

            "I thought," Enjolras growled, suddenly the image of icy marble once more, "that we were in search of our friends?"    

            Courfeyrac stopped laughing, and the smile fell off of Feuilly's face.  "Yeah." Courfeyrac muttered.  "I forgot."  Satisfied, Enjolras walked off in front of the group, leading the way once more.

             Grantaire looked at Courfeyrac with bewildered brown eyes.  "Forgot what?"  

            "Mortals can be Amis with gods, but they cannot be amis." Feuilly said softly.

            "But," Courfeyrac said, suddenly smiling once more, "at least we know she wasn't ugly."  

            The three stood silent for a moment and then lost any semblance of composure as they doubled over with laughter.      

_More to come._


	6. Combeferre too

_Author's note: I have updated! Sorry in the delay, I've been student teaching. One quarter down, one to go…anyway, here is the next chapter. Because of the delay it is a longer one. Enjoy! More to come.._

By the time Musichetta had gotten the boys and her sister ready to leave, Bossuet had joined the others in their juvenile mental state. Combeferre found that he felt oddly alone as his friends formed a tight group around Marquette. 

Sighing he absentmindedly fingered the rim of his glasses. There was something else that was bothering him. As much as he wished he could deny it, a small part of him wondered if perhaps…the curse was more of a blessing. 

Guilt came creeping into his veins with the thought. But as he watched his friends he had the oddly secure feeling that there wasn't a whole lot Enjolras could use them for now. Combeferre bit his lip, feeling uncomfortably disloyal to his friend and leader.

Musichetta however, seemed keen to leave as quickly as possible. Her curiosity was piqued by the prospect of meeting a woman hating young man who looked like a Greek god traipsing the earth. 

So Combeferre squared his shoulders and lead the way to Enjolras' apartment with Musichetta at his side. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"What if they try to find you at home?" Feuilly asked, as they circled the block once more. The fan-maker was beginning to get tired of walking in circles. 

"I hadn't considered that." Enjolras replied with a frown. "Will any of them recall where I live?" 

"Grantaire seemed to recall things fairly well until just a while ago." Courfeyrac said casting a swift look at the youth. 

Grantaire was peering the window of a wine shop. "Can we go in there? My father won't let me drink much…he says it's the devil's water…but he's not here, and I thought that maybe…" He trailed off at the awesome glare he was receiving from Enjolras.

"You really ought to be a professor." Grantaire replied, his young eyes wide. "That glare is most impressive. Makes you look at least forty." 

Enjolras drew a deep breath and allowed it to escape as a thin hiss. "We are going to my home." He replied curtly. "And your father is correct. _It is_ the devil's water. Abstain." Enjolras added as he turned towards home. 

"He's fun!" Grantaire said cheerfully following on Enjolras' heels. 

"He's something, alright." Feuilly said laughing, while Courfeyrac smiled. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Enjolras' building was in sight when a most peculiar feeling overtook Combeferre. It was a warm feeling, the sort of feeling one would get if they drank a glass of good wine. He felt for an instant as if the ground had suddenly started spinning beneath him. 

With a desperate gesture he clutched Musichetta's arm and pointed to Enjolras' building. "Room number 8." He gasped, feeling strangely as if he were fighting to keep his head above water. 

"Room 8." Musichetta repeated, obviously alarmed. She placed a worried hand on his arm to steady him. 

The information understood Combeferre let go of her arm and with it he let go of his adult perspective. 

René Combeferre stared at the group of boys he was standing near. "Hi…I'm René." He said somewhat shyly. 

A boy with gray eyes smiled at him. "Hullo, René! I'm Jean. And this is Michel…and this is Charles-Leon…and this is Lyle." He indicated each of the other boys with one of his thin hands in an awkward gesture. "Oh! And this is Musichetta and Marquette…they're helping us find someone." 

The woman named Musichetta looked oddly as if she were fighting back tears. "Well boys!" She managed. "Here we are at last! We just need to go and have the landlady notify room 8 that we are here…and…and things will work out from there." 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Monsieur Enjolras!" The landlady cried when she saw him enter the building. "A pair of young ladies and a passel of children to see you." 

Enjolras blinked. "Thank you, Madame. I'll take them up to my room." 

"They're up there waiting. I figured you'd want to see your—"

"They are NOT my children!" Enjolras exclaimed over Feuilly and Courfeyrac's guffaws. "Thank you, Madame." He added hastily as he stormed up the stairwell to his room. 

Enjolras swung the door to his room open and felt his heart nearly stop in his chest. 

"Oh, hello!" A brunette said cheerfully. "You must be Enjolras. I'm Musichetta. Oh, hi there Feuilly, Courfeyrac! How are you two?" 

"Hi, Musichetta!" Feuilly and Courfeyrac replied in unison. 

Enjolras was looking at the boys who were sitting on his bed, staring up at him with wide eyes. "And these are?" 

Musichetta shrugged. "These are, Jean, Rene, Lyle, Charles-Leon, and Michel." She said tapping each boy on the head as she spoke. "Also known as Prouvaire, Combeferre, Bossuet, Joly, and Bahorel." 

Enjolras knelt down on the floor in front of the boys. "Hello…" he said slowly, the color steadily draining from his face. 

"Hello, M. Enjolras." The boys replied together. 

Musichetta thrust a letter into Enjolras' hands. "This is from Combeferre. He said it would explain everything." 

While Enjolras tore open the letter, Grantaire was introducing himself to Marquette. "Hi, I'm Jerome Grantaire…what's your name?"

"I'm Marquette." Marquette blushed furiously. 

"This is boring, dontchya think?" Grantaire asked. "Would you want to go off and grab a bite to eat? My treat." 

"Sure! Just don't let my sister see us. She'd kill me." Marquette whispered hurriedly. 

"Okay!" Grantaire whispered back. And the two joined hands and slipped off. 

Jean and Michel noticed the young couple's departure and they moved to the window to peer down below. "Do you think we ought to say anything?"

"Nah." Michel replied. "The big blonde guy looks like he has enough to worry about." 

"'kay." Jean said as he watched the two teenagers walk hand-in-hand down the street below. 


	7. Waxing Poetic

Enjolras showed Feuilly the note from Combeferre.  As Feuilly poured over its contents, Enjolras watched Courfeyrac kneel and talk with his friends.

            "So what are you boys up to?" Courfeyrac asked after introducing himself.

            "We're not sure." René replied sadly.  "We're not even sure where are parents are."  

            Jean's eyes widened.  "I hadn't thought about that…where is Maman anyway?"  

            "Maybe they left us and we'll be put in a foundling home?"  Michel suggested brightly.

            "I don't wanna go to a foundling home!" Charles-Leon cried.  

            "Maybe we've been bad…and that's why." Jean's eyes were even wider with horror. 

            Courfeyrac felt mildly alarmed.  "Oh! No, no.  Ah…your er…parents…. thought you'd enjoy a little trip to Paris…and in a little bit…er um er…. we are going to visit someone…. er…. yeah."  

            Lyle frowned.  "But why wouldn't they come with us?"                             

            "Er…this is a special trip…just for boys."  

            "Oh." 

            Courfeyrac grinned slightly.  "Nice hair kiddo.  Enjoy it while you can."

            "Courfeyrac!" Enjolras snapped.  

            "Sorry!"  Courfeyrac tousled Lyle "Bossuet's' hair and took the note from Feuilly and read it eagerly. 

            Enjolras cleared his throat.  "Well, Mademoiselle Musichetta, we'll simply gather the…boys and your sister and head towards the street where Combeferre indicated this happened in his note." 

            Musichetta nodded cheerfully.  "Come on Marquette." She called.  

            There was no response.

            Marquette was obviously not in the room and this discovery made a frown crease Musichetta's forehead.  

            It was Feuilly who noticed the other missing party.  His eyes bulged slightly as he pondered the implications of this double absence.  "Oh—Courfeyrac…ummm….Enjolras…do you notice that of the ABCs we are missing….one?"

            Enjolras stared blankly at his workingman friend.   

            "You know…R." Feuilly continued weakly.  

            Enjolras whipped around and surveyed the room.  "Oh…" a curse word was muttered under his breath, half obscured by the slight coughing laugh of Courfeyrac.  

            "So my sister has gone off with a younger version of Grantaire?"  Musichetta, asked scowling.  

            "Er…it would appear…thus."  Enjolras stammered.  He had hoped that the young woman would be too dense to pick up on it.  

            "My dear, dear, Enjolras." Musichetta walked over, and kissed him briefly on the lips.  "I may be foolish, but I am not stupid."  She patted his cheek and motioned for the boys, all of who were gagging and retching at the site of the kiss, to follow her.  

            Enjolras stood angrily glaring at her back.  "I don't like her at all." He muttered as he roughly rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.    

            "I suddenly understand Jolllly's fascination for the girl!" Courfeyrac said wistfully.  "Lynette isn't half as forward."  

            "No personal boundaries…no decorum…. she actually kissed me…on the lips!" Enjolras fumed.  

            "She certainly is feisty." Feuilly said affably.  

            "The lips!" Enjolras cried.  He couldn't for the life of him understand why his friends weren't more upset by this.  

            "Wish she had given me a peck." Courfeyrac sighed.  

            "What is wrong with you?" Enjolras cried, vexed beyond endurance.  "I was standing here, minding my own business, when suddenly without warning, and certainly without provocation, a little dark haired female comes up and places her fetid lips on mine and kisses me."

            "Whoa, easy there." Courfeyrac said dryly.  "If you continue like that you'll give poor Prouvaire a run for his money.  And we really only need one poet in the group."

            Feuilly smirked at Enjolras bewildered fury.  "Speaking of him, shouldn't we join the others?"

            "Yes." Enjolras snapped and stormed passed them down the stairs.  

            "I think he's mad because he liked it."  Courfeyrac said to Feuilly as they too started to descend.

            "She's not my type!" Enjolras fumed from below, suddenly unable to contain himself.  "I like nice girls.  Quiet girls.  Girls who don't throw themselves at me because they think I'm attractive!  Do you have any idea how annoying that is?"  

            "No.  Wish to God I did." Courfeyrac said somewhat sadly.  

            "Well! Maybe when we find this gypsy woman she can contract something for a man afflicted with the mind of a child as well."  Enjolras growled, before storming out of the building, nearly running into Musichetta who was standing just outside.  

            "Lets go." Enjolras snarled.  

            "Okay." Musichetta said and for the first time Enjolras noted a bit of anxiety in her voice.  "Only are we going to find my sister first?  I mean, if it had been anyone else…with the exception of you Courfeyrac, you know I love you regardless sweetie, that I wouldn't care so much…but seeing as its Grantaire…" 

            Feuilly tapped his chin with a long finger.  "Why don't Courfeyrac and I go find them?  Then you two can take the others."  

            Musichetta threw her arms around Feuilly's neck.  "You are always such a gentleman, David."  She released him and smiled at him.  "Thank you."  

            To Enjolras' surprise Feuilly looked neither embarrassed nor upset with Musichetta for this violation of his personal space.  On the contrary, he kissed her fingertips and replied, "We'll get him back to you…sneezes, hypochondria and all.  And your sister's safety is garunteed. Grantaire might be a lot of things, but his ethics are not in questionable in the slightest.  Unlike some men I could mention."  He gave a sharp look at Courfeyrac who was ogling the hemline of a passing seamstress. 

            Courfeyrac looked up sharply and then he Musichetta both laughed.  He and Feuilly then went in the opposite direction to search for the two teenagers.  

            Enjolras looked at Musichetta in a new light as she looked sadly at Joly's blonde hair.  This was not just some empty-headed female…this was someone who cared very deeply…perhaps…. loved…one of his friends.  The revelation was disturbing.  Brotherly love he understood and venerated, something he desired for all of humanity.  But romantic love was lost on him…and he suddenly felt less of a man for it.  Though he certainly did not like Musichetta any more than he had, he now found grudgingly that he had to at least respect her existence.     

            "Well?" Enjolras said suddenly, his voice still commanding, but it had lost its chilling edge.   

            "Well." Musichetta replied softly.  

            And the two herded the boys down the street.


	8. A Sweet for a Sweet

"Number 17…Piaget's Café…"

            "Hmmm….Montessori and Sons…Number 19…"  

            "What number is it supposed to be?"  

            "21."

            "Tabula Rosa…Number 21!"  Musichetta cried happily pointing at the hanging sign.  

            "The Blank Slate."  A small voice said timidly.  The two adults turned to see Jean looking up at the sign.  

            Enjolras nodded curtly.  "Yes.  Good translation." 

            Jean nodded nervously, a trembling sort of bow.  "Thank you monsieur." 

            Enjolras gave a strained smile, which only seemed to make the child more anxious.  With a sigh, he pushed the door open. A small bell tinkled overhead, as the group crowded into the store. The boys had fallen into an uneasy silence as they huddled closely to Musichetta.  

            "Ah. I thought I might be seeing you." A wheezing voice said from behind the counter. 

            Musichetta and Enjolras looked in surprise at the elderly woman who was leaning on the counter for support.  She was glaring at them with a sort of sarcastic amusement gleaming in her sharp eyes.  

            "But…" She looked at the boys. "There seems to be an extra child here." She frowned.  "That was certainly unexpected…and undesired." She added in a wheeze.

            "Who are you?" Enjolras snapped.

            "I am Orka." 

            "Well, Orka…give me my friends back!" Enjolras growled.

            Orka was gazing at the boys and acted as if she had not heard Enjolras' demand. "The one with glasses…I gave him the wine…the one with the blonde hair…I saw him…that obnoxious creature is the one who knocked me over…and that one I recognize…" her gaze landed finally on Jean.  "But you, little one, I haven't seen."

            "That's because he wasn't there." Musichetta said, putting a protective hand on Jean's shoulder as he shrank away from the probing gaze of the old woman.

            "Ah. I see." Orka nodded and reached into a basket that sat on the counter.  "Would you like a toffee, little one?" She handed the sweet to Jean.  

            "Thank you, Madame." The boy eagerly popped it into his mouth before either Musichetta or Enjolras could utter a word of warning.  

            "I wanted one too!" Michel cried looking at Jean with avarice gleaming in his eyes.  

            Orka tossled Jean's hair.  "Little one, I have a paper full of these in the back. Would you be a dear, and get it so all of your little friends can have one too?"

            "Yes, Madame." Jean said thickly as he chewed up his toffee. Then he hurried into the back of the store.

            "Lovely." Enjolras said hissing. "I swear to you, if that thing you gave him turns him into a newt…or a toad…I'll…I'll."

            A bewildered, yet familiar cry came from the back of the store.

            "Jean?" Musichetta asked, alarmed.  "I'd better go and see what is…"

            "No!" A panicked, yet distinctly older male voice from the back stammered.  "No, no, please…don't come back…Musichetta….I'm…er…not…decent."

            "Jehan?" Enjolras queried.

            "Oh, Enjolras, thank God!" Prouvaire's relief was palpable.  "Do you…er…have any extra…. clothes? I seem to have…somehow…outgrown mine."

            Orka smiled slightly.  "Look in the wardrobe, Love. You can wear some of my Lev's clothing. God knows he doesn't need them any longer."  

            "Thank you Madame."

            Musichetta stifled a giggle.  "Manners are ingrained in that boy," She said with a smile.

            Michel peered anxiously at Enjolras.  "Where's Jean?" 

            Enjolras felt his face flush.  "He's…he's…" He trailed off as he caught sight of Jean Prouvaire.  "Oh my."

            Jehan was dressed in old-fashioned clothing that looked like it would not have been out of place in '93. The excess of lace did not suit the poet, and Enjolras vowed never to poke fun at his friend's true wardrobe again.  

"I look like I'm ready for the tumbrel." Jehan complained, pulling on the out of date clothing.  "No offense, Madame." He added hastily.  

            "No need to apologize, boy." Orka said with a smile.

            "What exactly happened, anyway? I remember…." Jehan suddenly saw the boys. "Oh!" 

            "They're still juvenile." Enjolras said bitterly.  "She won't turn the rest of them back." 

            "Oh, well you can't very well leave them like that, can you?" Jehan implored, turning his plaintive gaze towards Orka, as Michel peered up at him with a bewildered look in his eyes.  

            Orka shrugged.  "Why not?"

            "Well! Well…Combeferre helped you." Jehan stated, putting one of his hands on René's head.  Michel was holding onto his other hand, examining it closely.   

            "And your other friends left me."

            "They're idiots, but they are my brothers. And it isn't very humane, is it? To leave them as children?"

            "Ah, yes. Humane." Orka's eyes wandered over to Enjolras.  "Perhaps I'm more humane than you give me credit for, child.  After all, childhood is an ailment for which the cure is time. There are other ailments from which is much more difficult to come back from."  

            Jehan frowned. "I don't understand."  

            Enjolras, whom felt the gypsy hold his eyes with her gaze, felt that he did understand.  And he wished to God he did not.  


	9. Enjolras Misses Orka's Meaning

****          "Excuse me, monsieur, but have you seen a couple of adolescents?" Feuilly asked.

            The owner of the restaurant shook his head.  "No, I'm afraid I haven't." He smiled slightly at the young men. "Is there romantic rendezvous occurring between the young couple?"  

            "Oh, I hope not." Feuilly groaned.  

            Courfeyrac sniggered as they exited the eatery.  "That's the third restaurant…maybe they wanted ice cream?"  He pulled on his cravat as if trying to fan himself. "To cool their young ardor." He broke off in a fit of laughing as Feuilly tried to slug him.

            "It really isn't funny. They could be anywhere in the city."

            "Or they could be—"

            "No more jokes." Feuilly pleaded.

            "No, listen,"

            "Listen to me," Feuilly said, "I can't handle another one of your pathetic quips about Marquette and Grantaire."

            "Feuilly, they're---what do you mean pathetic?"

            "They aren't funny."

            Courfeyrac looked wounded. "I thought I was being quite the wit."

            "You're half-right." 

            "That stings." Courfeyrac said with a hurt look.  "And maybe I am a half-wit, but I'm a half-wit who just spotted Marquette and Grantaire in that bakery we passed a block ago."

            "Why didn't you say something?" Feuilly cried, turning around to go back they way they came.

            "I tried. You were too busy insulting my sense of humor." Courfeyrac kept pace with Feuilly, walking by his side with a grin. 

            Feuilly groaned in a strangled sort of way.  "Lets go get them before I lose my patience." 

            Courfeyrac brightened.  "It's a good thing you're not studying medicine then, Feuilly."

            "Don't say it." Feuilly held his head in his hands as he walked. 

            "If you're losing patients, I mean, what kind of doctor would you be?"

            "You said it."

            "I did."

            Feuilly sighed and made no further comment as they made their way back to the bakery.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Enjolras shuddered at the gypsy's words. A sudden horrible mental image assaulted him.  He could see his friends, lying like so many broken dolls on the streets of Paris, unmoving, their eyes wide, yet unseeing. Death…the one thing that a person was guaranteed not to recover from.

            "You cannot be certain that they'd die." Enjolras found himself challenging in a voice that the sounded much firmer than it felt. 

            "Die?" Orka coughed. "I said nothing about death, golden child, I was referring to your friends collective stupidity." 

            Jehan was looking askance at Enjolras. "What do you mean by 'die', Hector?" 

            Enjolras flushed slightly. "Jehan, why don't you go find Feuilly and Courfeyrac and see if they've located the others yet."

            Jehan smiled broadly, patting Michel and Lyle's heads fondly.  "I'd be happy to. Let me know what you meant by that statement later, if it was a metaphor, I'd appreciate having it explained." He said as he went out the door. The group could hear the howl of laughter that greeted the site of the poet's outfit and the hurried footsteps of Prouvaire's retreat.   

            Silence filled the room for a moment. Finally, Orka cocked her head and looked at Enjolras. "Oh, I see now. That's why you were so eager...cannons were hungry for their fodder where they?"

            Musichetta was digging her fingernails into Joly's shoulder without realizing it. She stared at Enjolras with a sort of slow dawning horror. "You…you…monster!" She hissed. "The secretive meetings, the hushed whispers…my God! You would kill them all."

            "Calm yourself, Musichetta. Women aren't meant to understand these sorts of things.  Females are too emotional of creatures to comprehend these sorts of issues." Enjolras said, the icy manner creeping into his voice once more.

            Musichetta turned to Orka. "I won't let you change them back. He's---_they're_ safe like this." She grabbed Michel and Lyle's hands. "Come on boys. We're going home." She held up a warning hand to Orka and Enjolras. "You two keep away."

            "But…where's Jean?" Michel asked, looking anxious. 

            Musichetta whipped around and put a finger in Enjolras' chest. "You stay away from Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Jehan too. You go near any of them, and I swear upon my soul that I will go to the nearest prefect of police and report you, Hector Enjolras." 

            Enjolras stared in numb disbelief as he watched the group leave the shop.  He felt in his heart of hearts, that Musichetta had meant every word she had said.  An odd sort of frustration was clawing at his heart at the same time an even more peculiar emotion threatened to smother him.  

            Orka put a gnarled hand on his shoulder. "Now, what will you do?" She asked, and the mocking sarcasm in her voice stung him nearly as much as the realization he wasn't made of stone after all.  


	10. Courfeyrac Explained

            Marquette and Grantaire were slightly abashed when Feuilly and Courfeyrac found them sharing a scone as they walked down the street.  

            Feuilly was spoke gently, yet firmly to the pair. "Jerome, Marquette, you had us all quite worried. There are a number of reasons that—"

            "You two must have had the time of your lives!" Courfeyrac broke in excitedly, "Did you see us? Oh, I remember the days of my early youth…there was this girl, the cutest little upper-class Italian thing…Cora…Cara...or something along those lines…we ran all over this city before her brothers caught up with us and beat me senseless…" Courfeyrac smiled distantly at the memory. "Those were the days."

            The three looked at him for a moment.  "It explains so much, yet leaves so much unanswered." Feuilly remarked finally, shaking his head and looking away in an attempt to conceal his amusement.  In doing this slight act he caught sight of a familiar figure. The fan-maker's eyes bulged. "_Jehan_?"  

            Jerome and Marquette sniggered slightly at the sight of Jean Prouvaire's outfit. Courfeyrac was speechless for the moment.

            Jean Prouvaire was panting slightly. "I know…I know…no, I did not mug an aristo of '93…no I did not raid my grandmother's closet…and yes, I am aware of how ridiculous I look."

            "Actually its an improvement." Courfeyrac finally quipped. 

            The poet looked at his friend for a moment and sighed, unable to think up of anything to jibe back.   

            Feuilly put his hand on Prouvaire's shoulder. "What brings you back to us?"

            The young man brightened visibly. "Acquittal." He said enthusiastically. "Since I was not present when the offence took place, Madame Orka gave me my adulthood back. You would not believe how unusual of an experience it is, Feuilly! Seeing the world as a child sees it once more! I cannot find the words to aptly describe the ascent into a more pleasurable innocent time." 

            Feuilly smiled kindly.  

            Jehan started slightly. "Oh! I nearly forgot, forgive me. Enjolras wanted to see if I could find you and to see if you had found Grantaire and Marquette—which I see you have." He cocked his head to the side and regarded the sniggering adolescents for a moment. "I am glad I didn't end up as a teenager once again." He said finally.

            "Why is that M. Prouvaire?" Marquette inquired, suddenly feeling slightly ashamed of her rudeness. 

            "It was a very awkward time for me. I wasn't very graceful." Prouvaire confided before nearly tripping over his own left foot and falling face down into the pavement. Courfeyrac caught him in time and Jehan threw him a grateful look. 

            Marquette managed not to smile, but Jerome guffawed. 

            Jean Prouvaire looked at the young Grantaire. "Your arms are different lengths." He said finally, before leading Feuilly and Courfeyrac.

            Jerome snorted. "What sort of comment was that?" He chortled at the poet's back.

            Courfeyrac whispered to Jehan, "Yes, what sort of comment was that, Prouvaire?"

            "The sort that will eat at an adolescent for a good week." 

            Courfeyrac looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see Jerome anxiously appraising the lengths of his arms. Marquette was eyeing them critically as well, trying to see if there was the slightest deviation in their comparative lengths.

"Well, I'll be." He remarked.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Musichetta was struggling not to cry.  She did not want to frighten the boys any further than they already had been.  Charles-Leon and René were clutching at folds of her skirt, and Michel and Lyle were holding on to her hands very tightly indeed. 

            "Is M. Enjolras a bad man, Musichetta?" René asked after a while.

            Musichetta bit her tongue to fight back the 'yes' that so willingly came to her lips. "No." She replied softly. "He is not a bad man. He is a very foolish man who would throw his greatest treasures away…but he is not a bad man." 

            "Why don't you like him?" Charles-Leon asked.

            Musichetta felt as if a knife had been plunged into her heart as she looked at the young face staring up so innocently at her. Hatred towards Enjolras began to burn once more in the pit of her stomach.  "Because he not only throws his own treasures away, Charles-Leon, he would also throw the treasure of others away.  He is very selfish." 

            Michel spoke up. "Why doesn't someone just beat him up then? "

            Musichetta laughed suddenly despite herself. "Why would someone do that, Michel?"

            "Well if he was throwing _my_ treasure away, I'd show him!" Michel swung his fist at the air. 

            René blinked up at Musichetta from behind his glasses. "Maybe he doesn't like them? The treasures I mean."

            Musichetta sighed and ruffled the boy's hair with deep affection.  "If that is the case, he is even more foolish than I thought."

            "Can we go back to your home, Musichetta?" Lyle pleaded.  "I'm hungry."

            "When do we eat?" Charles-Leon asked anxiously. 

            Musichetta bit her lip briefly.  _How can I feed this many children as well as Marquette and myself?_ Fear briefly clouded her thinking but she quelled it with the thought that the boys were safest this way.  God would no doubt provide a way for her to provide for them all, one way or another.  

            Smiling weakly she told the boys, "We will go home now, but first I want to stop at the bakery and buy some bread for our supper. I'm afraid dinner will be very simple tonight."

            The boys looked up at her with understanding and implicit trust.  The innocence in their collective gaze made her anger towards Enjolras rise in its intensity and along with it her affection for the boys also rose.   

            "Don't worry boys, " She said quietly.  "You are safe with me."  


	11. Enjolras is Enjolras

Enjolras stood outwardly stoic for a long time in the oppressing atmosphere of Orka's shop. 

            "I do care for them." He finally said.

            Orka shrugged. "I care not."

            Enjolras glared at the elderly woman.  

            "You tell me as if you expect me to applaud.  You care for your friends. Well, _bravo_, golden youth!" Orka said sardonically.  "Apparently the mademoiselle _loves _your friends." 

            "Sacrifices must be made for a greater good." Enjolras stated flatly.

            "You are willing to die for…whatever this cause is?" 

            "Yes." Enjolras did not even need time to consider the question.

            "You are willing to have your friends die for it?"

            "They are willing."

            "That is not the same thing."

            "Their lives are not mine to barter with." 

            "If their deaths could bring about your goal, would you condone it?"

            Enjolras flinched at the question and Orka laughed at him.  "You hate yourself because you have to consider that question. It disgusts you, yet you actually have to consider it!" 

            Orka's laughter was cut short by a look of pure pain and misery in Enjolras' eyes.  "I would rather die than see any one of them suffer a moment, let alone endure death."  Yet even as Enjolras spoke the pain and misery faded and in their place a steely look began to form.

            "However, if I were to make a choice between _my mother_ and my friends…I would choose my mother." He said in a tone that almost sent chills down Orka's spine.

            The old woman quickly rallied and looked at the young rebel derisively. "Do they consider _you _a friend?"

            _Mortals can be Amis with gods, but they cannot be amis._

Enjolras looked at the floor. "I'm their leader. That is enough." 

            "Is it?" 

            "I believe it is." Enjolras wondered briefly why he felt so compelled to convince this haggard old woman that he wasn't some sort of heartless monster; that he was just…Enjolras.  His friends always understood him, didn't they? They knew that he cared for their well being and happiness, didn't they? Surely they realized that he took silent delight in their joys and accomplishments, did they not? 

            But…voices from the past…his own voice…rang in his ears.

            _Put the blasted bottle down Grantaire._

_            We don't have time for love sonnets, Prouvaire we have to prepare._

_            Courfeyrac, that drawing is **highly** inappropriate._

_            I don't have time to go to dances, Joly._

_            I have no desire to capture specimens, Combeferre. _

_            A bacchanalia? What's that? A **What**? NO, I do **not **want to attend, Bossuet!_

_            Bahorel, I am not wearing…that…that…ridiculous red waistcoat. _

Enjolras blushed deeply feeling ashamed as he recalled the countless times he had turned down his friends' invitations and requests for his presence in anything that did not relate to the cause.  They were willing to risk their lives; he wasn't even willing to risk an afternoon.

"Why do they even want me around?" He pondered.  

            Orka smiled thinly.  "Because, Hector Enjolras, they are your friends." 


	12. Musichetta et Feuilly

"Musichetta?" Marquette gasped as she saw her sister walking teary eyed with the boys in tow.

            "Hello, Marquette." She sniffled.  "Feuilly…Jehan…Courfeyrac." She mumbled dropping her gaze from the men.

            "What happened?" Marquette left Jerome's side and hugged her sister tightly.

            Musichetta was staring at Feuilly who with a jolt realized that something was terribly amiss.  "Why?" She asked him brokenly.  "Why would you follow that…that…impassive…heartless…" She broke off into a genuine sob and the boys huddled together nervously, unsure what to do with their weeping guardian. 

            "Oh." Feuilly muttered as he put his arms around Musichetta and allowed her to cry into his shoulder.  He gave and significant glance to his comrades both of whom looked anxiously at Musichetta. 

            "She knows?" Courfeyrac asked, uncomfortably.  He preferred a laughing woman to a sobbing one and was almost as uncertain as the young boys were of the situation. 

            "Yes, I know! And why, Courfeyrac? Why? What is wrong with you? And you, Jehan? How can you even consider treas---" Feuilly gently pressed his hand against her mouth, stopping word before it could fully leave her lips. 

            "There are ears around the city, and one does not talk of these things in the streets." He whispered into her ear.  "We'll discuss this after we get the others back to the—"

            But Musichetta broke away from him shaking with emotion.  "I won't allow it.  I won't allow Enjolras to kill him, I just can't allow it." She paused a second before adding, "Any of them. Any of _you_." 

            Feuilly let the statement hang in the air for a while.  When he spoke it was with soft deliberation.  "Courfeyrac, you will watch over Marquette and Jerome.  Jehan, you will watch over the boys. Buy them supper and take them back to your place…you have a house to yourself, do you not?"

            Prouvaire nodded quickly and grinned lopsidedly.  "I have a housekeeper who is going to wonder what on earth I've been up to, but I actually relish her expression." He commented gesturing for the boys to follow him. 

            René looked uneasily at Musichetta.  "Is it alright for us to go, Musichetta?" The other boys also glanced at their maternal minded guardian, who smiled in a strained sort of way and told them that they would be fine with Prouvaire.  The boys followed the poet curious and eager to finally get their dinner.

            Courfeyrac stepped between Jerome and Marquette.  "You two are in for an evening, (what is left of it anyway,) of the utmost dullness and chaste, the likes of which one would never guess that _I _could provide." Smiling broadly he lead the somewhat annoyed youth, one on each arm in the direction of the Corinth wine shop.  With its decidedly lousy food and lack of service, it was all together the least romantic spot Courfeyrac could think of. 

            Feuilly pulled Musichetta closer to him as soon as he saw they were alone, and lead her into an alley.  "Now, we need to talk."

            "I don't want to talk about it." Musichetta dropped her gaze.

            "I realize you don't. How do you expect to clothe and feed them as well as your sister and yourself?"

            Musichetta wouldn't look him in the eye.  "I'll think of a way."

            "You'd all be in the streets in a month."

            "You cannot be certain—" she bit her lip hard as she realized how close she had come to quoting Enjolras.

            "You know about what we aim to do." The tone was infinitely gentle.

            This time she did look Feuilly in the eye. "And how Enjolras would have you do it." She spat out the statement almost viciously, her hatred apparent in every feature on her face. "The fool." Considering the venom with which she now regarded Enjolras, "fool" seemed to be a tender moniker indeed.

            The orphan nodded sadly.  "You are a good woman, Musichetta. That's why Joly loves you."

            Another time, perhaps even an hour earlier, Musichetta would have wept at the statement.  However, all it did was anger her even further.

            "He _loves_ me? Odd way of showing love, if you ask me, David!  Did he just sit around one day and suddenly go, 'Oh, how I love Musichetta! I think I'll join an organization run by a madman who has a bloodlust.  That will surely prove my adoration.' Is that it?"

            "It isn't Joly you're angry with, Musichetta." Feuilly remarked.  "You know it."

            Her lip quivered.  "I hate Enjolras."

            "I know."

            "You all…you all have women who love you…how can…how can you just…forget…about us? Surely you all aren't so blind that you do not see the danger in the game you are playing?" She looked up at Feuilly with a pleading glance, although she wasn't certain what she wanted the fan maker to say. 

            "Our lives are our own to wager.  Enjolras did not force a single one of us into joining Les Amis."

            "I've always thought Joly was very sensible." She mumbled.  "It's one of the things that made me fall in love with him.  He always bundles up when it is cold, he brings an umbrella if it is raining…nice sensible things." Musichetta shut her eyes and leaned against Feuilly for support.  "I'm fond of Bossuet too, mind you. He makes me laugh.  He's around so much, I know his every quirk.  I care for him deeply, but he is more of a beloved friend. I don't _love_ him, not as I do Joly." 

            Feuilly put a protective brotherly arm around Musichetta.  "Why would my nice sensible Joly join in something that is far more likely to kill him than cholera or a fever is?" She asked pitifully. 

            "Talk to him about it once we get him back again." Feuilly urged.

            "What if he sides with Enjolras?" Musichetta tensed.

            "Charles-Leon Joly, side with Enjolras over Musichetta? The same Musichetta who got him to wear doeskin breeches?"

            Musichetta giggled in spite of herself and attempted to dry her eyes.  "They looked so ridiculous on those scrawny legs of his."

            Feuilly smiled kindly.  "Talk with him.  He admires and respects Enjolras, but my fair mademoiselle, he _loves_ you." 

            "It wouldn't be fair to the others if I left them as they are, would it." Musichetta stated shakily.  "Bahorel…Combeferre…they deserve to be as they were."  She looked at Feuilly abashedly.  "I told Enjolras I would report him if he came near any of you."

            "Will you still?"

            Musichetta shook her head bitterly.  "I'd like to maim him bodily, but I will not report him to the police."  She gripped Feuilly's sleeve and added in a low voice, "But only because it would possibly endanger the others." she mumbled.


	13. The Price You Might Pay

Enjolras looked up at Orka.  "Give me the antidote." He commanded in a dark tone.

            "It'll cost you my dear."

            His quicksilver eyes narrowed.  "What is the price?" Enjolras asked coldly.

            "You are."

            "What?" Enjolras blinked.  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

            "I never had a son…or a daughter for that matter."  Orka said with a dry laugh. 

            "Ah?"

            "I have a little bit of that potion left.  I wish for you to drink it and remain with me as my son." Orka said firmly. 

            Enjolras felt nauseated and yet oddly relieved.  "I…I…"

            Orka eyed Enjolras disdainfully. "Or, I would settle for one of your friends.  That little one with glasses is quite adorable."

            "You can't have Combeferre." Enjolras found his voice again.  "I agree to your bargain, Madame." He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment.  "How quickly does it work?  Would I have time to get my affairs in order?"

            "Time enough, I am certain."

            Orka gathered up her basket and put her paper of sweets inside it along with a small bottle and a tin cup.  "I will come with you and help you." She said patting his arm.  "I wouldn't want my investment to run off."

            Enjolras' lips twitched but he did not comment.


	14. Orka's Payment

            Enjolras and Orka wandered vaguely in the streets for nearly half and hour before he decided to go to Prouvaire's place. 

            Jehan's housekeeper answered the door and showed them into the parlor.  There was a roaring fire in the fireplace, and Enjolras wasn't surprised to see the boys playing with Prouvaire various knick-knacks and oddities that he kept about.  He also wasn't surprised to see Prouvaire's potted plants kept well out of reach.

            Enjolras was, however, surprised to see Musichetta sitting on the settee between Feuilly and Jean Prouvaire.  The young woman stared stonily at Orka, avoiding Enjolras' tentative glance. 

            Orka spoke first.  "I have brought the remedy for your friends." She told Prouvaire, handing him the paper of toffees. 

            Jehan looked anxiously at Enjolras.  "It is quite safe, Jean Prouvaire." Enjolras assured him.

            "Oh.  Good then.  René! Michel! Charles-Leon! Lyle! Madame Orka has brought some sweets for you." The poet handed each child a toffee. 

            "Thank you Madame Orka." René said politely. 

            The other boys were too busy stuffing the toffees into their mouths to respond with the proper thanks.  However, when René glared at him, Lyle managed a muffled "Thank you," around his sweet.

            "You had best send them into another room, for decency's sake." Orka commanded.

            Jehan led the bewildered boys upstairs and into the guest bedroom and closed the door. He then came back down the stairs and sat back down beside Musichetta.

            Feuilly looked uneasy.  There was something about the whole situation that he did not like.  "Enjolras," he began.

            "Sweet thunderation!" A familiar voice exclaimed from the upstairs. 

            "We're us again! How delightful! How marvelous! How---aw, my hair's gone again." 

            "I'm sure there is a scientific explanation for all of this…I just cannot fathom what it is at this moment."

            "I'm just glad we managed not to catch anything."

            There was a pause.  Then the first voice said, "You know we are going to have to change clothing again."

            Prouvaire called brightly up the stairs, "You are welcome to anything in my wardrobe, fellows!"

            There was another pause. This was followed by some whispering that contained words like "Don't have a choice." And "_Be nice_ Bahorel."

            Several moments later, Bahorel, Combeferre, Joly, and Bossuet came down the stairway, dressed in an odd assortment of Prouvaire's clothing.  They were all smiling in a strained sort of manner, and Bahorel kept tugging on the yellow waistcoat patterned with little flowers, that he had donned

            Feuilly smiled and embraced the group.  "It is good to see you again."

            "Glad to have you back."  Prouvaire added.

            Musichetta sprang from her seat and hugged Joly tightly.  "I was so worried about you!" She said kissing him tenderly.

            Orka looked towards Enjolras.  "It is time that you held up your end of the bargain, golden youth."

            "Bargain?" Feuilly wrinkled his brow.  "What bargain?"

            "I have agreed…in exchange for your adulthood…to become her son, by taking the same potion that you did." Enjolras said evenly.

            "But…that isn't fair!" Combeferre protested.  The others voiced their agreement in loud tones. But Enjolras merely shook his head.

            Orka was already pouring the potion into her tin cup.  "Drink up, Hector."

            "You can't do that!" Feuilly cried.

            "Are you insane, Enjolras?" Bahorel asked.  "Are the four of us worth more than your dreams?  Worth more than _France_?"

            "But…we need you." Prouvaire said unevenly.  He looked on the verge of tears.

            Courfeyrac chose this moment to enter the home with the two adolescents in tow.  The door opened with a bang as he entered. "What have I missed? Oh, you're back to yourselves again. Why the long faces though?" he asked in his usual chipper manner.

            "Enjolras is going to become a child and stay with her as her son!" Prouvaire informed the law student pointing at Orka.

            Courfeyrac blinked at the old woman that he had heard so much about and decided that she was too old for his tastes.

            "I'm not sorry.  It had to be done." Enjolras took the cup from Orka.  Courfeyrac put a restraining hand on his arm.

            "Shouldn't you perhaps leave the room? I'd be happy to stay with you…if Madame permits." He added.

            Orka shrugged.  "If you wish.  It would be best for someone to be with him so he won't feel panicked."

            Courfeyrac drug Enjolras up the stairs and shoved him into the same guest room that had housed their friends moments earlier. 

            Apprehensively, the Amis stared up the stairs.  

            The clock on the mantle ticked steadily as the time passed.  Minutes passed.  Joly sneezed and Bahorel whistled softly as the passage of time continued to be marked by the clock.  Jerome and Marquette held one another's hands and snuck into the kitchen to talk. Musichetta coughed softly, and Feuilly sighed. More than half an hour passed thus.

            Then the door opened at the top of the stairs.

            Enjolras, very much an adult stepped out.

            Orka looked very displeased.  "If this is some sort of trick boy, you'll find that you have chosen the wrong---"

            Enjolras raised his hand.  "You said earlier that one of my friends would do as well." He paused and looked vaguely amused at something.  "I had a volunteer who I could not refuse."

            The blonde young man opened the door more widely and from behind him a blur shot out of the room and down the stairs.  A sheer, youthful ball of energy careened into the room where everyone had gathered. 

            "HI!" bellowed the boy as he proceeded to jump on the couch, bouncing with reckless glee.  His tousled brown hair fell into his freckled face and his brown eyes shone.  "What's this thing do?" he asked as he leapt from the couch and ran over to Prouvaire's desk, picking up various items and played with them.

            "Cour—Courfeyrac?" Bahorel gasped.

            "Yes, meet Christophe." Enjolras said eying the child's movements with the smallest of smiles.

            Orka was watching the boy with wide eyes.  The child hadn't stopped moving since he came down the stairs.

            Christophe abandoned the desk and began to do an impromptu handstand, which quickly turned into a series of somersaults when he fell. 

            "Well, hadn't you best take your ward home?" Enjolras suggested.     

            Orka sensed some sort of trickery, yet she moved towards Christophe.  "Boy, you will come with me." She ordered extending her hand.  "I am your mother now."

            Christophe wrinkled his nose at her and kicked her in the shins.  "NO! You are NOT my maman!" he screamed.  And he continued to scream a long wordless shriek that made the hairs on Musichetta's neck stand on end. 

            Enjolras came down the stairs and leaned against the door jam with his arms folded across his chest. Feuilly looked at him in amazement.  He had never seen Enjolras smile about anything that wasn't related to the Republic, and now the man looked on the verge of laughing!

            "You are to come with me." Orka tried again.

            "NO! You're ugly! You can't make me go with you!" Christophe screeched. 

            Okra made the fatal mistake of trying to forcibly move the young Courfeyrac.  As she tried to grab him in order to pick him up he sank his teeth into her palm.  She promptly dropped him with a curse.  A curse, that Christophe proceeded to shriek repeatedly at full volume as he bounded around the room like a crazed rabbit. 

            "No, no, little one, we don't say that word." Orka said attempting to quiet the youngster.

            Bahorel cried out a few more words for Christophe to repeat.  The boy was only too willing to oblige, and soon the house fairly rang with all sorts of colorful obscenities being bellowed out at the top of his little lungs in a perverse lilting song.

            Orka let her breath out with a hiss as she fairly rammed a toffee down the boy's throat.  "You win." She muttered.  "Keep your friends and your adulthood, Hector."

            The young men exchanged grins and beamed at Enjolras with pride and affection.  Musichetta alone noticed the slightest of kind smiles that flickered across Orka's own face as she surveyed Enjolras returning those grins. 

            "Make sure that one---" Orka pointed at Christophe who was still busy chewing his toffee, "writes a very nice letter to his mother.  If she isn't locked up somewhere after raising that." She gathered her basket and other items and headed for the door.  "Watch where you go, boys." Orka said as she raised her hand in farewell.  Then she was gone, the door shutting quietly behind her.

            "Enjolras, that was brilliant!"

            "Courfeyrac---it's a wonder she didn't _run_ from here, honestly!"

            "However did you think of it?"

            Enjolras cleared his throat. "It was _his_ idea.  I only agreed to it because he said…he said that he nearly drove his mother insane as a child."

            "I'm glad you are still with us!" Prouvaire said earnestly.

            "He's cute!" Bahorel remarked looking at the small Courfeyrac.  The boy had made guns out of his hands and was busy shooting all of his friends. 

            Enjolras smiled at his friends and Musichetta couldn't help but notice a marked difference in his appearance as they sat down and began to chat about how things had worked out. 


	15. C'est Fini

            It had been an entire week since "The Gamin Incident", as the Friends of the ABC had affectionately dubbed it.  The students' lives were getting back into the usual routine.  Prouvaire was writing verses, Bossuet lost a good deal of money in a bad wager, and Courfeyrac had taken into his protection a stray law student. All was as it should be.

            The little bell tinkled over-head in Okra's shop and she looked up from her work to smile at the golden haired young man as he walked in.  "Hello again, Hector." She said as she polished her counter.

            Enjolras nodded in acknowledgement of the greeting. He carried a bundle under his left arm.  "Madame, my friend, Jean Prouvaire, asked me if I would deliver this to you. It is the clothing you lent him." Enjolras placed the bundle on the counter in front of Orka. 

            "Thank you." Orka said quietly as she stooped to place the bundle underneath the counter.  When she stood up she was surprised to see Enjolras still standing there. 

            "I also wanted to give you a bit of thanks.  Whether you realize it or not, you helped _me_ realize that I have been perhaps a bit…distant from my friends.  Considering what good men they are…that distance was inexcusable.  I am working to remedy my shortcomings." Enjolras said in his softly severe voice. 

            Orka shook her head.  "You merely looked into the mirror, young one and saw what was plainly there." She paused and pursed her lips.  "Your friends are all as they were, once again?"

            Enjolras paused for a fraction of a second before answering, "Yes." 

            "Did your friend write that letter?"

            "Courfeyrac insists that merely the fact he has grown into, and I quote, 'The charming individual that I am today', end quote was thanks enough for his mother.  Prouvaire tells me however, that Courfeyrac's mother gets rather suspicious if he tries to write flowery letters of that matter." 

            Orka gave a brief smile. 

            Enjolras nodded his head again and turned to go.

            "Wait a moment!" Orka called sharply.

            In his surprise Enjolras knocked into a shelf against the wall near the door. He turned to look at Orka.

            "Keep an eye on that adolescent of yours." She warned sagely, though her eyes sparked brightly.  "It is not an easy age."

             "We'll take good care of him." Enjolras gave the smallest and briefest of smiles before leaving the shop entirely.

            Orka laughed softly and continued polishing her countertops humming an old song from her own youth.

            Neither of them noticed the peculiar gold powder that had fallen on Enjolras's hat when he had bumped into the shelf.

            But that is a story for another time.


End file.
